


Home for Thanksgiving

by flaming_muse



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:44:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaming_muse/pseuds/flaming_muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Football, mashed potatoes, and napkin flowers. Thanksgiving with the Hummel-Hudsons, sometime in the next ten years.</p>
<p>futurefic, no real spoilers for anything</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home for Thanksgiving

**Author's Note:**

> A little bit of Hudmel future fluff, a future that now will never be, written with love and sadness on the occasion of the death of Cory Monteith.

“No, come on, not _again_ ,” Burt pleads with the television as the referee makes yet another bad call. He slumps back in his chair in disgust. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me!”

“Someone should check that ref’s eyes, because clearly he needs glasses,” Finn says from the near side of the couch.

His arms crossed over his chest, Blaine nods and adds, “Or a quick refresher on the rules of the _game_. This is ridiculous.”

Carole peeks her head in from the kitchen and says, “They haven’t tossed out that terrible ref yet?”

“No,” Burt replies.

“It’s awful,” Blaine says, turning to her. “He’s making a travesty of the entire game of football. A complete mockery. And I’m not just saying that because he keeps making calls against the Buckeyes.”

She wipes her hands on the dishtowel she’s holding. “Aw,” she says with a fond and understanding smile for them all.

“If this guy isn’t fired after this game, there’s no justice in the world,” Burt says. He takes another sip of his beer, though no amount of alcohol is going to be enough to make him forget this horrible game. But still, it’s beer. It won’t hurt.

Finn slumps down a little more on the couch, his long legs barely fitting under the coffee table. “It’s pretty much the worst game of football ever, Mom.” He rubs his hands over his face.

“Well, the good news is that dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes,” Carole tells them. “So you won’t have to watch any more of it.”

Finn’s head snaps over toward her. “Fifteen minutes? But the game won’t be over by then.”

She folds the towel neatly and raises her eyebrows at the complaint. “You can record it,” she says. “Or do you want to be the one who tells Kurt you don’t want to eat his turkey at its perfect internal temperature?”

Finn’s brows draw together, and he looks almost torn by the choices, but Burt could swear that Blaine goes a little pale beyond him. Blaine’s a wise fellow sometimes.

“We’ll be there,” Burt tells her. It’s a pretty bad game, not really worth seeing live, but even if it were the best game in the world he’d still be sure to be sitting at that table on time. He’s not afraid of Kurt’s temper, but it’s Thanksgiving. It’s where they all belong.

“Good,” she says, meeting his eyes with an approving nod and a little smile just for him. He loves that smile. He loves that he has someone who gives it to him.

“Do you need any help?” Blaine asks, shifting forward on the cushion like he’s going to rise.

Carole reaches out and warmly pats his shoulder. “No, honey, you sit. You already set the table, so you just enjoy the game. We’ll let you know when we’re ready for you.”

Blaine glances toward the television, then back to her. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. We have it all under control.” Her grin turns mischievous, almost saucy. “And we’ve dirtied plenty of dishes for you guys to wash after the meal.”

“We’ll be happy to help out,” Blaine assures her.

“Don’t know if ‘happy’ is the right word,” Burt says, just to see Carole laugh, which she does, as easily as always.

“You’d better be happy, or you’ll be eating take-out at Christmas,” she replies. “Okay, just a few minutes.”

They turn their eyes back to the game, for all the good it does them or the Buckeyes, lapsing into the companionable silence Burt has come to enjoy with them over the years. They can all get going over the dinner table, talking and laughing, but there’s something nice, simple about sitting there watching football. It’s good when Rachel is there texting with her New York friends or Kurt is reading magazines through it and distracting Blaine by pointing out particularly nice photos, but this is real good, too.

“No!” Finn yells at the television.

“Damn it!” Burt says at the same time. That goddamn _idiot ref_.

Blaine just groans in agreement and rubs at the bridge of his nose.

A couple of minutes later, Rachel strides imperiously into the living room, her hands clasped in front of her. “Finn? We need you.”

“No, we don’t!” Kurt calls from the kitchen.

“Finn,” Rachel says more loudly, her smile sweet in a way that Burt knows all too well means business, “we need your impressive upper body strength and extra inches of height.”

Kurt’s voice gets louder, too. “Rachel Berry, just because _you_ aren’t strong enough to hand-mash the potatoes doesn’t mean that _I_ am not strong enough to hand-mash the potatoes.”

“Kurt’s very strong,” Blaine assures her. “His arms are incred- uh - “ He breaks off as Rachel’s eyes flash to him.

Kurt appears behind her, a white chef’s apron tied neatly around his waist and his clothes somehow still spotless despite having been in the thick of preparing the meal for the past few hours. Burt’s never quite known how Kurt manages that kind of thing; Burt goes in there to grab another beer and ends up with flour on his sleeve. “Thank you, Blaine,” he says with an approving smile, and Blaine smiles back.

“I’m sure he is,” Rachel says to the room at large, “but _Finn_ is stronger, and his height gives him a better leverage to - “

“I am _not_ having Finn mash the potatoes,” Kurt says. “I learned that lesson four years ago.”

There’s a roar on the screen, and Burt snaps his attention back to find that there was a field goal when he wasn’t looking. Of course, it isn’t the Buckeyes scoring it.

“Worst football game ever,” Finn says with a sigh. He looks forlornly at the empty bottle sitting on the table beside him. “I need another beer.”

“I do, too,” Blaine says, tipping back the last of his drink. “Although I’m not sure it’ll help all that much.”

“Excuse me,” Rachel says pointedly, “but it’s time for _dinner_. And those potatoes aren’t mashing themselves.”

“No,” Kurt says, turning toward her in a smooth but determined motion, “I’m mashing them.”

Rachel lifts her eyebrows, even though she really ought to know by now that they won’t work on Kurt. “Finn is mashing them.”

“If you wanted, I could mash - “ Blaine starts a bit uncertainly.

There’s another loud cheer from the screen, and Burt sighs in frustration. It’s not a good game, and he’s willing to turn it off to have turkey, but he’d kind of like to _see_ it if he’s supposed to be watching it.

“How ‘bout you use that hand mixer to do it,” he says. “Be faster than doing it by hand, and it’ll be quieter than all this arguing.”

“Burt!” Rachel gasps in shock. Her hand flies up to her chest. 

“Dad!” Kurt cries, just as scandalized. “A _hand mixer_?”

“You’re joking, right?” Blaine asks Burt with wide eyes.

“Oh, I like whipped potatoes!” Finn says, smiling.

Burt looks at the three horrified faces (and Finn’s happy one) and adjusts his cap on his head a little uneasily. “People use mixers to make mashed potatoes. You can’t tell me they don’t. I get the Food Network.”

“Dad,” Kurt says, putting his hands on his hips, “did you used to eat library paste when you were a kid?”

“I did,” Finn says with a shrug.

“That explains a lot,” Kurt shoots back, and Blaine shifts uncomfortably on the couch, looking vaguely guilty.

“Like you didn’t go through a whole phase in college where all you baked were meringues,” Rachel says to Kurt.

“They’re _food_ , Rachel,” Kurt tells her.

Rachel raises her chin in challenge. “They only _taste_ like paste?”

“I like meringues,” Blaine says from his corner of the couch. Burt’s not sure if the kid’s that loyal or he really is the perfect match for his son.

Burt clears his throat and steps in, because this could go on all night, and there are football games to watch and dinner to be eaten. “What does eating library paste have to do with anything?” he asks.

“Because if you use a hand mixer to make mashed potatoes, you’re most likely going to end up with paste on your plate,” Kurt explains crisply. “And if that’s what you want, you could have told me beforehand, and I could have stopped by OfficeMax to buy a case and saved myself the trouble of going to six stores in search of purple potatoes in Lima.”

Finn’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and he looks vaguely disgusted. “The potatoes are _purple_?” Burt knows just how he feels, and he’s glad _he_ wasn’t the one who had to ask the question.

“The potatoes are getting _cold_ , and cold potatoes mean lumps,” Kurt says, turning back toward the kitchen.

“Well, then,” Rachel says, reaching out to grab Kurt’s arm, “if Finn would just come and - “

Carole comes to the doorway and announces, “Okay, the potatoes are mashed. We just have to do the gravy, and we’ll be ready. Blaine? Finn? Would you two get everyone’s drinks, please?”

As Kurt and Rachel stare after Carole in shock and a fair bit of horror that Burt tries not to laugh at, Blaine and Finn get up off the couch and follow after her like the helpful boys they are. Well, they aren’t boys, really, not anymore, Burt knows, they’re well into their twenties, Blaine a married man and Finn looking like he’s going to get there any minute now, but they’ll always be boys to him, the same kids who tried to squeak out a few extra minutes before curfew, who made moon-eyes at Kurt and Rachel even when they were trying not to, who laughed and cried and tried so hard beyond their years. They’ll always be those boys to him, even as they’re growing into the men they always were going to be. He’s proud of them, of his boys and Rachel, proud to call them all family.

“If she over-salted them I’m going to need you to distract me before I explode,” Kurt says in a low voice to Rachel.

“Next year we’re doing this all ourselves,” she replies under her breath, her hand curling around the bend of his elbow in camaraderie.

“Absolutely.”

And with that, they march back into the kitchen with their heads held high to finish up the meal.

Burt slowly finishes up his beer before he pushes himself up out of his chair. He knows it’s best for him to stay out of the way. With that many cooks in the kitchen, it’ll be mayhem. So he wanders through, taking the dish of green beans Carole hands to him with a smile and a kiss and delivering it to the table. Blaine’s already there carefully lighting the candles, while Finn’s trailing behind pouring water into the goblets waiting at each place. They move like a dance, easy and rehearsed, like they know their parts.

The table setting is simple but elegant, mostly familiar from past years together but with some new bowls Burt doesn’t recognize.

“Looks nice,” Burt says, standing by his chair at the head of the table, and Blaine looks over at him out of the corner of his eyes and doesn’t quite manage to hide his proud smile. Then again, he doesn’t try so hard to hide it anymore, or maybe Burt knows how to look for it.

“Thank you,” Blaine replies, moving to the candles at the other end of the table. “Kurt’s been scouring those shops by our apartment looking for serving pieces for us, and he found a few that he thought would look good to replace the stuff that got broken last Christmas.” He shoots an apologetic look at Finn.

“It was one bowl,” Finn reminds them without much heat. “One. The other one was only chipped.”

“And that is why you are now excused from dish duty for the rest of your life,” Kurt says, arriving with a big bowl of steaming stuffing. The aroma makes Burt’s mouth water. He grew up on sage stuffing, but Carole’s recipe is tradition now.

“I’m still not sure how _not_ having to do dishes is a punishment,” Blaine tells him, and Kurt smirks over and bumps his elbow against his husband’s.

“It is when I tell you that he’s on trash duty for the entire weekend instead,” Kurt says. “And he has to sweep out the garage.”

Finn puts the pitcher of water over on the sideboard and picks up the bottle of wine. “The trash I get, ‘cause I need to pitch in, but why do I have to do the garage, too? That seems kind of over the top.”

“It isn’t a punishment if it isn’t something extra, Finn,” Kurt tells him. “You don’t just get to switch chores.” He touches the white napkin folded like an intricate flower on his plate with the tip of his finger and smiles brightly at Blaine in wonder. “Did you do these?”

Blaine nods, his mouth twisting like he’s trying to keep himself composed.

“They’re beautiful.” Kurt fluffs one of the napkin’s petals a bit and then leans in to give Blaine a brief kiss, his hand on Blaine’s arm. “You must have been practicing for days.”

“Weeks,” Blaine admits, some of his joy creeping out onto his face. “It was hard, even with a YouTube video. But I wanted to do something extra special this year, since you still won’t let me help with the cooking. I’m glad you like them.”

Kurt smiles warmly at him, caught in him for just a second, the same dazzlement in his eyes he’s had since he first met Blaine, if more steady and sure now, held up by everything that they are to each other. “They’re beautiful,” he breathes again, a thank you, and it does something to Burt’s heart to see him so happy.

“Okay!” Rachel trills, carrying in a basket of rolls. “We’re ready!”

“Oh, Mom, let me get that,” Finn says to Carole, rushing to take the heavy turkey platter out of her hands.

“No!” Kurt cries and reaches out for him, but Blaine steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, and Finn delivers the turkey to the table without incident.

Kurt lets out an audible sigh of relief and unties his still spotless apron. Blaine produces a dark, slim jacket seemingly out of nowhere and helps Kurt slip into it while Finn pulls out a chair for Rachel and Carole drops a kiss on Burt’s head as she rounds the table.

“Is that everything?” Kurt asks, casting a critical eye over the table as he holds Blaine’s chair for him.

Carole unfurls her napkin flower and lays it over her lap. “I think so.”

“I have my tofurkey,” Rachel says, gesturing to the little platter of fake meat in front of her.

“Great?” Finn says with an encouraging if unconvinced smile. He reaches for the bowl of green beans beside him. “Can we eat?”

“Remember,” Rachel tells him, “we’re going to my dads’ for pie, so don’t fill up too much.”

Finn visibly deflates, and he drops his hands back into his lap. “But Mom made her oyster stuffing,” he says. Rachel pats his leg in comfort, and he smiles a little at her.

“There will be plenty of leftovers,” Carole says.

“Especially if Finn’s not going to be having seconds and thirds today,” Kurt comments dryly.

Blaine smiles up over his shoulder at Kurt, who is still standing behind his chair. “Well, I’m saving room for Kurt’s apple pie.”

“Haven’t you had enough?” Kurt asks him. “You tasted _all_ of the trial recipes.”

Laughing, Blaine says, “I did, and that’s why I’m saving room. I know how good your pies are.”

Kurt grins down at him, soft and fond, and rubs his hand over Blaine’s shoulder. His wedding ring catches in the candlelight, and Burt wonders not for the first time how his baby boy has grown into this confident, content man.

“My dads always buy their pies from Lomax’s,” Rachel says. “They’re excellent.”

“Oh, Lomax’s. Are they having chocolate cream?” Finn asks her.

“Just for you,” she says, smiling warmly at him, and he beams back, his whole face lighting up. “I made sure.”

“I love chocolate cream,” he says, like she’s offered him the best gift in the world. Maybe she has, because even Burt can see it’s something from her heart.

“So that’s everything?” Kurt asks. “Turkey, sides, plenty of wine...”

“I think so, honey,” Carole says, and Kurt moves to sit just as Burt notices something very obvious missing.

“Carving knives?” Burt asks, peering around his plate, like he could possibly overlook them.

“Oh! They’re still in the sideboard.” Carole pushes her chair back, Kurt moves toward the sideboard, and Rachel turns around in her seat.

“I’ll get them,” Rachel says briskly. She tosses her long hair over her shoulder and slides out one of the drawers. “I may not agree with the slaughter of our avian friends, but since the turkey has already given his life for your meals I am happy to help out.” She pulls out the carving knife and fork that Burt’s father had given him when he’d married Kurt’s mother and hands them over to him with a smile.

“Thank you, Rachel,” Burt tells her, and her smiles grows even wider.

As Kurt takes his place beside Blaine, Burt pushes back out of his chair and gets in position in front of the golden brown turkey, still steaming and fragrant with herbs. He’s pretty sure Kurt even used real butter, just this once. It’s Thanksgiving, after all.

It’s Thanksgiving, and his family is home. Burt looks around the oval table, at Finn, the son he never thought he’d have, and at Rachel tucked in beside him, almost a daughter after this long tied to Kurt and Finn, at Carole, the wife he was fortunate enough to find after he’d all but given up on love, at Kurt, the son of his blood and his heart, the man who still somehow has so much of his mother in him no matter how long she’s been gone, and at Blaine, holding his hand beneath the table like they’re teenagers newly dating instead of the married couple they’ve become. He looks around at them, at the love in their eyes, at the smiles on their faces, at the comfortable way they sit in these seats that have become theirs, and his heart feels full. His house feels full. He feels happy and whole, lucky, and knows that even though next week there will only be Carole to keep him company instead of the house full to bursting with their kids his heart will not be diminished.

His house will still echo with their love, long after they’re gone, long after they’ve gone back to their homes and their lives and futures they’re making for themselves.

He wishes he could keep them all of the time, but family doesn’t have to be together to be true. He’ll be holding them in his heart. It might not be quite as good as right now, but it’s still wonderful.

“Dad?” Kurt asks with a bit of worry. “Is everything okay?”

Burt takes in the way Blaine’s mirroring Kurt’s concern by the lift of his eyebrows, the way Carole is smiling at him with bittersweet understanding, the way Rachel is threading her fingers through Finn’s on top of the table. He’s not a man given to poetry, he doesn’t have any sort of eye for taking a photograph, but he wishes he could memorialize this moment all the same. Because this is life. This is them. This is his _family_.

“Yeah, everything’s fine, kid,” Burt tells him with a smile and lifts the knife to carve the turkey.


End file.
